Stories by
R. Gatwood

We argue over what to call it, that place where the children die.

R. Gatwood is precise.

Since you died, two thoughts keep hitting me one after the other: “Wish you were here” and then “You didn’t want to be here.”

R. Gatwood is concise.

I forgot your birthday this year. Maybe that’s progress.

R. Gatwood’s fiction has appeared or is forthcoming, depending on your temporal location, in Apex Magazine.

He lived long enough to see his favorite beach vanish and his favorite food go extinct.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is the emergent consciousness of a spectacularly inefficient library shelving system.

He lies bleeding in her lap, and he says, Tell me a story, and she laughs through tears and says, I love you, and he says, No, a true story.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) tells many stories, mostly false ones.

I click “Ask me a different security question” because it still hurts too much to type your name.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) is the emergent consciousness of a spectacularly inefficient library shelving system.

You wake up in the hospital, having failed even at this.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I pretend your train is Einstein’s train and your face a beam of light—the two of us shining side by side in perfect sync—as I watch you go.

R. Gatwood is concise.

I wouldn’t want my baby raised by a family that would have me as a member.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) was born from the head of God and is now looking for someplace more comfortable.

Call me Victor. I don’t deserve the name of Frankenstein. My creature, my son—let him take that from me. I have given him nothing else.

R. Gatwood (@iwantanewhead) knows every monster by name, even yours.